Chapter 3

At Lake Sibaya, Northern KwaZulu Natal, South Africa.

While the Cessna sat in the middle of the lake slowly and silently riding the small swells of the lake water on her mooring, Melanie repeated her question.

“Speak, I’m listening...”

“Is there still coffee left in that flask of yours?”

“Yeah, it’s still half full, mister coffee-pot,” She shot back.

“Then let’s get some.”

“And let’s go sit in the back. There’s more legroom there.”

We moved the two front seats to about flush with the panel so we could slide through the narrow opening towards the back. There was no need to climb out on the floats and then open the back doors; we could just squeeze through the opening created by moving the front seats up.

She poured us a tin mug each, and we sat down on the back seats. The Stationair could accommodate six people, including the pilot.

The middle row of seats faced the back, so we sat opposite one another, facing each other. She had reinstalled the back seats since yesterday’s cargo and passenger run.

“Now, I’m waiting...” Melanie said, looking at me over the rim of her tin mug.

“How well do you know your aircraft, Melanie?” I asked.

“I’ve been flying her for the last three years. I think I know her well by now.”

“When last did you drain the header tanks?”

“Header tanks? What’s that? And where are they?”

“Okay let me explain.”

“First tell me how you know about aircraft,” She tried once more to get me to open up.

“Okay, I’m a licensed pilot. And I own shares in a flight school out in Gauteng.”

“Do you have an instructor rating and license?”

“Yes, but as I said, I just own shares in the business. I don’t instruct there.”

“Okay ... What aircraft do you fly?”

“I’ve got a two-ten, but I thought you wanted to know about what went wrong out there?” I pushed back, and took a sip of my coffee, waiting.

“Okay, we can discuss your flying another time. What went wrong back there?”

“I’ll have to explain to you the way Bibi’s fuel system works.”

“I know how it works! There are the two main tanks that supply fuel to the fuel selector switch, booster pump, forward sump, and fuel divider that sends the fuel to the six cylinders of the engine.”

“Only half true. Finish your coffee and let’s go check your fuel divider.”

“Why? You think the problem’s there?”

“The fuel divider is that spider-looking thing on top of the engine. The fuel line comes in and is then divided into each cylinder. That part you know. But there is another line that comes out and either stops short or goes out the cowling. This is the divider drain. The divider is just a rubber diaphragm with a spring. When it gets old the fuel leaks and is drained out of that pipe. That you will notice right away if you open the engine cowling.”

“I did not see any fuel leak...”

“No fuel stains, nothing?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No nothing. Besides the fuel divider was serviced with the last engine overhaul.

“Then that brings me to your second thing and most probably the reason you had a fuel flow fluctuation.”

“Go on...”

“And this is the problem with the 200 series of Cessna, and most pilots don’t even know it exists, and by the grace of God this problem doesn’t occur that frequently.”

“Okayyy ... Go on.”

“The fuel from the main tanks flows first into kidney-shaped header tanks. There are two of them, one for each main tank, and that feeds your fuel selector, which feeds your forward sump, fuel booster pump, engine-driven fuel pump, the fuel divider, and the engine. The drain for those two header tanks is just beneath the point where the wing struts attach to the fuselage, just forward of the struts, and under the fuselage.”

“Damn! I saw that stuff but did not take notice of it.” Melanie said and took a sip of her coffee and a look of concern on her face. “Don’t the mechanics take care of that?”

“The mechanics are supposed to do it, and many do, but not all of them. When was the last time Bibi was serviced?”

“About a year ago. She is now due for her five-hundred-hour service...”

Okay, what happened was that the engine-driven fuel pump has a fuel bypass that doesn’t deliver the fuel back to the pump inlet, nor to the main tank. Instead, it delivers it to the header tank. And there is your problem.”

“Vapour lock?”

“Yes, the vapour from the hot fuel was blocking the fuel from the main tank to the engine. That’s why I said DON’T switch on the booster pump, or if it was on, to switch it off. Also, by switching tanks, you get cool fuel into the system, and there you go! Problem solved.”

“Dammit! I could have crashed us!”

“No. You had plenty of momentum and altitude. Besides, you were in full control to make it to the lake, even if the engine did quit.”

“So, what now?”

“We finish our coffee, go drain the header tanks, at least the left one, and fly off.”

“Okay, it’s anyway getting late, and I don’t much fancy a night landing on the water where I can’t see if there’s hippos or crocs around.”

“Oh yes,” I chuckled. “Those critters don’t show up on GPS...”

“Or, in the landing lights until it’s too late!”

“And we don’t want that!” Chuckle. “Sticking Band-Aids on Bibi isn’t going to cut it.”

“But you would like to stick some Band-Aids on me, wouldn’t you...” she teased, narrowing her eyes, her lips a thin line on her face. I saw another side of her. The bitch of yesterday was dead and buried. I liked the new Melanie.

The round red disk of the sun was touching the top of the distant mountain range as Melanie turned the Cessna into the wind on the final approach. The floats kissed the surface of the water, showing her skill in handling the aircraft.

After we taxied towards the shore, she dropped the wheels and increased power to negotiate the slight incline of the beach towards the green grass in front of the hangar.

We disembarked the aircraft against the backdrop of the fading sunlight. Melanie secured the aircraft, and together we pushed it into the hangar.

“Now for supper...” She sighed.

“Yeah, that’s some adventure we had,” I replied.

“Thanks to your fast thinking we are here to enjoy another supper, and we won’t be a headline in the morning paper.”

“My pleasure Mi’lady. Now a shower, supper and downloading the photos I captured today, and in that order of business.” I said.

She looked at me for a long moment, drew a long breath while wiping a stray lock of hair out her face. ”I must go write up my logbooks. Those of the aircraft, myself and the medicine I dispensed today. Only then can I think of a shower and supper.”

“I thought you might join me for supper?”

“The staff of the resort are not allowed to mix with the guests,” She replied and kept a serious, expressionless face. But the light in her eyes said otherwise.

“But you are not staff! You’re the owner, and for you the rules don’t count!” I tried to persuade her.

“Ty ... Mister Van Aswegen, don’t tempt me and don’t make it difficult on me. As the owner I need to set the example.”

“What is difficult for sharing a table with me at supper?”

“Staff have their meals in a different dining room. Besides, I take mine in my apartment.”

“Okay, so be it! I would have liked to extend our excellent conversation for a while longer,” I replied.

“Oh, now I’m excellent conversation! But yesterday afternoon you would have drowned me in the lake if you had the chance,” she said, looking away from me, but not before I could see a half smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes. By that time, we reached the split in the path. One path leading to the main complex and one to my suite. The third path was marked: Staff Only. No Entry to Guests.

“Well, then I bid you a good night, Miss Ková,” I replied.

She smirked. ”Are you giving up so easy?”

“No, I’m not giving up. But you must be tired, flying to Kosi Bay, working three or four hours in the heat of the day, flying back, and handling an inflight emergency.”

“You’re right. I am pooped.”

“Then I might see you in the morning. I have some exquisite pictures of you treating the cattle,” I threw out the fishing line and she perked up.

“You took pictures of me treating the cattle?” She exclaimed.

“Yeah!” I said, and she glanced sideways at me.

“Okay, Ty Van Aswegen! Seven thirty, dining room! And bring your laptop!”

“It’s a date ... I’ll be there...”

“IT’S NOT A DATE!”

“Okay ... It’s a non-date. See you at seven-thirty,” I replied and turned to leave for my suite.

I strode up the path towards my suite, but at the turn in the path, I glanced back. She was still standing there where I left her, her head slightly bowed, and her arms folded across her chest. Her left foot was tracing a circle on the ground. What was going through her mind?

Melanie felt a mix of confusion and intrigue swirling within her. Yesterday she met Ty for the first time and treated him arrogantly. His unexpected forgiveness left her questioning her own actions.

She lingered on the pathway to her apartment, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to protect herself. Protecting herself from what?

Protecting herself from getting hurt again? Having her heart broken again?

As the emotions awakened, a subtle warmth enveloped her, at odds with the turmoil in her mind. She found herself tracing the pattern of the paving brick on the ground, before her, with her foot.

Trying to suppress this unfamiliar vulnerability, she stepped forward, trying to distract herself by focusing on the rhythmic click of her flying boot heels against the pavement, hoping that the distance would quell the emotional storm raging within her.

She was doing a good job of hiding away here at iSigodi, throwing herself into the everyday running of the resort and the occasional animal patient that came to her clinic.

But then yesterday, she nearly ran that hunk of a Tyron Van Aswegen over. She knew corporate was sending out the spies, and she tried her only defence by being bitchy; trying to get him to resent her. But what did he do? He insisted on being nice!

And then yesterday evening, when Jerry Sinclare unexpectedly died on the patio, Ty took over and guided her to do the right things. He even brought her a conciliatory coffee.

And today? Even Bibi turned against her and nearly killed her. And again, Ty came to the rescue, taking charge and instructing her on what to do and how to rectify the problem.

And now he did it again! He dangled the pictures he took today in front of her, making her eager to see them. She planned to go hide away in her apartment, but sly Mister Ty drew her out.

By this time, she was at her apartment next to the employee accommodation block. She unlocked her door with the key card, stepped inside, closed the door and dropped onto the couch. Then she made up her mind. She bent down and unlaced her flying boots, kicked them off and pulled off her thick woollen socks.

“Okay, Mister Tyron Van Aswegen! Let’s see where this goes!”

She stood up from the couch and stormed to her bathroom, scattering her clothes on the floor as she undressed. First her shirt hit the top of the stairs, then her bra dropped in the middle of the hallway, then she hobbled out of her cargo shorts and panties and dropped them on the bathroom floor.

Melanie’s strong athletic form reflected her confidence in the mirror. Her narrow, almost boyish hips and small, perky breasts were integral to her unique beauty.

She ran the shower before getting in, then looked back at her reflection in the mirror. A momentary appreciation for her own individuality crossed her mind, a subtle acknowledgement of the strength that lay beneath her exterior. But she was not so sure any more. Ty Van Aswegen was rattling her world.

“What are you looking at?” She addressed the form in the mirror. “You only live once! You can’t hide forever. AND I’ll pick up the clothes later...”

But the face in the mirror had an expression of: “Right little lamb, go. Go, and get slaughtered again...”

Let’s look in on Tyron.

I took the flight of wooden stairs to my suite, and noted that dusk was settling in. Here at iSigodi, we are just four hundred and sixty kilometres south of the Tropic of Capricorn. It was near as can be to the tropics to feel the effect of the sun but far enough south that we got the long lingering twilight after sunset.

I entered my room and switched on the light. It was not totally dark outside, but the gloomy shadows were strong inside the suite.

The first order of business was to get a shower and I spent twenty minutes under the water. Refreshed, I got dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and denim pants, casual, but smart casual.

From inside the little bar fridge, I took a five hundred millilitre bottle of Coca-Cola and sat down at the little desk in the corner next to the huge king-size bed. I connected my camera to my laptop and started to download the pictures I had taken during the day, all eight hundred of them. I chuckled inside that film is cheap for the digital camera I use now.

While the download was in progress, I called my client.

“Hi there! What’s up?”

“Hi to you too. I have a question.”

“Fire away.”

“Could you lay your hands on a staff list of the resort?”

“Yeah, I could. What do you want to do with it?”

“I want to check names against job descriptions, see whose hand is in the cookie jar.”

“Miss Ková is a likely candidate...”

“Nope! I scratched her off the list of suspects.”

“How come? She is the most likely candidate.”

“I checked her bank accounts before I came here. There are no eyebrow-raising transactions reflected. On her ID number, she has only two accounts. One is a personal account, and the other is an account she uses for her vet practice. The only income shown on her personal account is her monthly income from the resort. The rest is only a few cash transfers to her vet practise account. She is legit. But something curious though: it seems that her personal income decreased by the amount that the repayment of the loan is increased with. Could it mean that she takes less on her salary and channel that funds towards paying off the lone?”

“I must check on that loan repayment. She could have another account. Remember she is a Czech citizen with a Czech name and surname.”

“Now how many Kristýna Nikita Novákovás do you think are there in South Africa with a South African Identification card and a Czech Republic passport in the same name?”

“I thought she was registered as Melanie Ková, here in South Africa.”

“Wrong! She uses her Czech name and surname. The Melanie Ková is just a nickname for the locals that can’t pronounce her real name.”

“My word ... Now that opens another can of worms...”